Only the Wind
by Tolakasa
Summary: Future. Sam got his wish.  Dean lived.  But there's always a catch.


Mild spoilers through "Bedtime Stories."

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**Only the Wind**

The reports were the same. They always were.

_Patient exhibits little to no affect. Exhibits minimal emotions and does not seem to understand the concept. Patient has no memories of life before coming to the hospital. Accepts orders without questioning. Does not seem to remember favorite foods; circles whatever is on the top of the meal list. Changes from list do not upset him. Displays no curiosity. Patient is not creating a new life based on experiences since the onset of amnesia. Despite weekly visits, still does not recognize his brother._

Sam sighed, and set the progress report down on the desk. Progress. Yeah, right.

He stowed the new shirts in the proper drawer—neatly labeled "shirts," in case the room's occupant forgot, which was not out of the question—and glanced around the room. There was a small bulletin board near the door, with activity schedules posted on it, and not a scrap of other decoration. It could have been an empty room awaiting an occupant.

Dean had been here for eleven years.

It was midafternoon, which meant Dean would be out on the grounds, in a place he frequented so often the staff had named that particular spot "Winchester." As long as the weather was clear, he spent the daylight hours out there; the staff had given up trying to bring him in for lunch or group activities, since that was the only time he fought them, and none of the activities showed any evidence of helping him anyway. They checked up on him every now and then, but on the whole, Dean was the least troublesome of the patients.

Orderlies nodded at Sam as he walked by, as did some of the clearer-headed patients; the ones who had been here awhile had gotten used to seeing him. A couple of the families sometimes even invited him over for the holidays, having put the pieces together about what the lack of other visitors must mean: that Sam and Dean didn't have anybody else.

A few more years, and he might start taking them up on those offers. He didn't hunt anymore, not the way Dad and Dean always had; local hunts only, and mostly cases that came to him, hauntings and exorcisms and the occasional magical creature that wandered into town. Mostly he researched for other hunters, who didn't pay, and Bela, who he made damn sure _did_.

There had been a fire in this building several decades back, when it had still been a convent, and there was a half-forgotten memorial statue to the dead nuns tucked away in a corner of the grounds, hidden now by a screen of trees. That was where Dean was, sitting perfectly still on the ground next to the statue, staring at nothing. He might have been a statue himself, and whatever it was he focused on so intently, no one else could see.

Sam's heart twisted. "Hi, Dean."

Dean tore his gaze away from the _nothing_ that absorbed his attention and slowly looked up at him. There wasn't a trace of recognition in his eyes. There hadn't been in years. "Hi," he answered. No name. There never was.

"I brought you these." Sam held out a bag of peanut M&Ms, the peace offering he brought on every visit.

Dean accepted them, fastidiously pried the bag open, being very careful not to rip the sides or long seam, and ate one candy. Precisely one. "Thank you." The words were empty, formalized; something he knew he should say because the staff had taught him to.

This was always the worst part. Every time he visited, he expected to see—well, to see _Dean_, to find his brother in there somewhere. He kept hoping that one day Dean would just tear into the bag and toss back a handful of chocolate, that he'd demand to know where his car was and what the next job was and if Sam had gotten laid lately. That one day Dean would look at him and say _Hi, Sammy_. That he'd just _know_ Sam, know that there was a bond between them, know _anything_. "How's it going?" he asked, sitting down beside Dean.

Dean shot him a suspicious look, and edged slightly away, setting the M&Ms down between them. "All right."

Of course it was. Dean didn't know any different. "Anybody giving you trouble?"

"Why?" Dean asked blankly.

"No reason." Dean wouldn't understand how much Sam would have rejoiced in hearing that Dean was picking fights again, or that he was restless and curious and wouldn't sit still for any reason. "Ellen sent you some shirts."

"Thank you." Another empty pleasantry. Dean didn't care what he wore or where it came from. Clothes were another of those niceties that the staff insisted on.

"I'll tell her you said so." Bobby had come here once; he'd made it five minutes before he turned and left the building. Ellen sent presents—new clothes, usually, or little treats like candy and shampoo and soap—but she'd only made it through one visit. Henriksen had shown up, once, but it hadn't taken long for even him to figure out that no judge on the bench would declare Dean competent enough to stand trial, and they would be reluctant to move Dean to a state facility at public expense when the public was perfectly safe where he was _and_ somebody else was footing the bill. "I drove the Impala. Dr. Reynolds said you could go see her if you wanted."

"No, thank you."

Sam couldn't blame the staff. How were they supposed to know that politeness was as alien to Dean as opera? They certainly couldn't know that it wasn't reassuring to Sam. "We got them out," he said quietly. "Dean, we got you all out. Every soul that ever sold itself, we set them loose. Why haven't you come back? The others were dead, but you're not." Dean didn't look at him. "Dammit, Dean, _come back!_"

"I'm right here," Dean said, but Sam knew he wasn't answering the question. Just something else the staff had taught him to say.

Crossroads demons were merciful, when it came down to it; they were kind enough to make death part of their bargain. But piss one off—or worse, piss off their master, the demon that controlled the actual contracts...

Sam had killed enough demons to get his wish. Dean didn't die.

What he hadn't given them a chance to tell him—and he was pretty sure, now, that that was what Number Five and Number Seven had been trying so hard to explain—was that bodies could live without souls, that Dean's body could be alive while Dean's soul was in Hell. _Animate but not animated_, Ruby had said, when he'd finally put the Colt to her temple and forced her to explain.

It had been the shock that sent him off the downward spiral, jerked _him_ off the road to Hell and back into the fight on the side of the humans—that, and the need to get Dean's soul out of Hell. Damn the war, he just wanted his brother back. Five years ago, they'd managed, him and Bobby and Ellen and Bela and a handful of other hunters, broken the bonds that kept sold souls in Hell and killed the demon lord in charge of contracts. The crossroads demons were scattered, unable to answer any summons. No one could sell their soul again, not until the demons managed to reorganize, and that could take centuries.

And it hadn't made a damned bit of difference to the shell that had once been Dean. Nothing had changed. He still didn't recognize Sam, or the Impala, or even the M&Ms.

Sam pushed himself to his feet. There wasn't any point in staying long. Once he would have spent the entire afternoon here with Dean, talking about the past, about Dad and all the hunts they'd been on and times they'd nearly died, hoping something would spark a memory. These days, he couldn't take it. Dean could, because none of it mattered to Dean, but it took Sam longer and longer to recover from these visits. "I'm sorry, Dean," Sam whispered. "I'm so sorry."

Dean looked up. "Did you say something?" he asked, frowning.

Sam froze. Curiosity. Dean hadn't shown any curiosity in years, not about _anything_. Was this— Oh, dear God, let it be— "No," Sam lied, hoping Dean would pursue it.

"Oh." Dean ate another piece of candy. "I thought I heard something."

Two pieces. Two M&Ms.

Dean hadn't eaten two M&Ms at once since Sam started bringing them. Sam wasn't even sure the candy made it back to Dean's room, unless he carried it back for him. "What did it sound like?" he asked. He couldn't hope. He couldn't _let_ himself hope. He couldn't take that, not anymore.

But yet...

"Nothing." The flash was gone.

Sam looked away quickly, to make sure Dean couldn't see the tears. Not that this Dean would even understand, but he didn't want to hear the empty _I'm sorry_ that they would be sure to bring. "Must've been the wind," he finally managed to say. "Only the wind."

_**the end**_


End file.
